A Season of Sacrifice
by Lindenharp
Summary: James gives up flying for Lent. Robbie is not pleased. The 3rd story in my series, "On the Wings of the Dawn". It won't make much sense unless you've read the others. Lewis and Hathaway friendship.


**Saturday, 26 March  
** Third Saturday in Lent  
10:38 AM

James steps into the cool dimness of the confessional and folds himself down on his knees. The needlepoint cushion, stitched by some long-ago parishioner, has been squashed into a flat, lumpy pancake by generations of penitents. The hard oak surface of the kneeler might be more comfortable without it, but physical comfort is not something he needs or deserves.

He tries to arrange his mind into some semblance of calm reflection. He inhales deeply, taking in the scents of candle wax, furniture polish, and the blurred secondhand odours of the last few people to seek absolution here: cigarette smoke, sweat, cheap cologne, and cinnamon.

The shutter slides open. Father Kennett's gravelly baritone greets him. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is one month since my last confession." He starts with the simpler sins: impatience, envy, taking the Lord's name in vain... Now comes the difficult part. "I was excessively angry with my friend."

"Excessive? Was the sin one of proportion? Do you believe that the anger was justified?"

"I don't know," James whispers to himself, then repeats in a clearer tone, "I don't know, Father."

* * *

**Wednesday, 9 March  
** Ash Wednesday  
1:37 PM

James is cross checking their long list of potential suspects against the membership rolls of the Oxford Philatelic Society when Lewis returns earlier than expected. "Meeting over so soon?" He looks up to find his governor staring at him as if James is a crime scene and he's searching for evidence.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Sir?"

"Are you ill? Feeling poorly?"

"No, sir. I'm fine." After a moment of silence he ventures to ask, "Why?"

"On my way back from the meeting I came across DC Hooper eating a roast beef baguette wrapped in very familiar-looking blue and white greaseproof paper. When I asked, he said you'd given it to him because you _couldn't_ eat it."

James jiggles his knees beneath the desk. He'd expected the meeting to run at least a half hour longer. By the time Lewis returned, the baguette he'd so thoughtfully and inconveniently given to James should have been reduced to stray crumbs on DC Hooper's desk. He hadn't intended open deception, only to avoid an embarrassing explanation. "I'm not ill, sir. I'm fasting."

Lewis wrinkles his nose. "Fasting! Don't tell me you've got into that herbal cleansing bollocks?"

James represses a laugh. "No. The motivation is Catholic rather than colonic. It's Ash Wednesday today, and that's a fast day. Only one full meal, and no meat." He prepares himself for a sharp response about the foolishness of self-imposed suffering.

"You're not smudgy," Lewis says thoughtfully, jabbing his broad thumb in the general direction of his own forehead.

"No, I didn't—" James falters. _It's not a Holy Day of Obligation_, he wants to say, though he's reasonably sure Lewis doesn't know what that means, and _I don't need to hear 'Memento Mori' to remind me that humans are mortal._ James had hoped to avoid this conversation. His current relationship with God is rather complicated; his relationship with the Church even more so. "I didn't go to Mass this morning, but I am keeping the fast."

Lewis presses his lips together in the way that means _I disapprove but it's none of my business_. "How's it going with the stamp collectors?"

"No matches yet. I'm about halfway through, so there's still hope."

"You can tackle the second half when you come back."

"Back from where?"

"Getting us some decent coffee from that Italian place. Don't dawdle. And if you must pollute the air, do it while you're walking."

"Coffee, no dawdling. Got it, sir." As he strides out of the office, James reflects that a stranger overhearing their conversation would pity him: an overworked sergeant treated as an errand boy by his demanding inspector. It's true that a bagman winds up doing most of what Lewis calls 'donkey work'. That's the way of things, after all. Only this particular errand has been concocted with James in mind. James is the one who loves the hazelnut lattes at the Italian cafe; Lewis would be content with something from Costa, which is much closer. The cafe is also two doors down from a vegetarian takeaway. He can get his second small meal there—something to eat on the way back that will tide him over until dinner. Just as Lewis intended, no doubt.

* * *

**Saturday, 26 March  
** Third Saturday in Lent  
10:42 AM

"So he disapproved of your fast, but helped you keep it because it was important to you?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then what was the cause of your anger?"

"He also disapproved of my Lenten sacrifice." James sighs. "He disapproved of the entire concept of sacrifice, but it was my particular choice that bothered him."

The silence beyond the screen seems to stretch out for a very long time. Father Kennett won't ask.

"I gave up flying for Lent," James blurts out.

"Flying? Do you mean flying a plane? Or something like a hang-glider?"

The words freeze in James's throat. He's got no real reason to be afraid. His secret will be protected by the seal of the confessional. Still, he can't make himself say those two or three words. At last, he takes refuge in Latin. "Alatus sum," he whispers. _I am winged_.

* * *

**Friday, 11 March  
** First Friday in Lent  
6:17 PM

"I was thinking," Lewis says, as they walk into the car park at the end of day.

"It's the weekend," James replies. "You don't have to do any thinking until Monday."

"Hush, you. Any road, the weather's supposed to be fine, and we're not on call, so I was wondering if you'd like to go bird-watching."

James manages not to flinch. 'Bird-watching' has become their private code phrase for flying. Last summer, for the first time in years, he dared to go flying; again first on an isolated Hebridean island, and then in rural Oxfordshire. From the beginning, Lewis has been his confidant, travelling companion and lookout. Even during the winter months, Lewis was always willing to go on 'bird-watching' expeditions, standing guard for as long as an hour in the cold and the wind. He swore the enjoyment he got from watching James fly outweighed any minor discomfort from the weather.

"What do you say?"

The question jolts James out of his reverie. "I'm sorry," he says with genuine regret. "Not this weekend."

"Got other plans, eh? No worries."

It's not his fault if Lewis makes assumptions, James tells himself. And it's true that he has other plans for the weekend, even if those plans involve no more than a good book and some time with his guitar.

**Saturday, 26 March  
** Third Saturday in Lent  
10:46 AM

"Why didn't you tell him the truth about the flying?" Father Kennett asks. If he's had any sort of emotional reaction to learning James's secret, it's not apparent in his calm, even voice.

"I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of disappointing him."

James knows that other confessors would respond with pious platitudes: _"You should fear God's disapproval, not man's"_ or _"A true friend will support your faith."_ Father Kennett says simply, "His opinion matters to you."

"Yes, it does." _More than words can express._

* * *

**Friday, 25 March  
** Third Friday in Lent  
2:56 PM

"What's going on, James?"

He looks up from his computer to see Lewis giving him a worried look. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't wanted to go bird-watching in nearly a month. What about this weekend?"

James sighs. "Not this weekend, or the next, or the one after that. The thing is... I've given it up for Lent."

"Are you taking the piss?" Robbie demands.

"No. Why would I?"

Lewis's reply is interrupted by the arrival of Chief Superintendent Innocent, who wants an update on the Jasper Keyte murder. Lewis summarises the latest toxicological results, then nods at James to explain the likely significance of the books left open on the victim's kitchen table. By the time they've finished briefing Innocent, word comes from the Duty Sergeant that Keyte's gardener is ready to be interviewed.

It's almost 7:00 before Lewis finally pronounces the day over, and when he suggests Chinese takeaway and a James Bond film marathon at his flat, James is happy to agree. They're on the sofa, watching the closing credits of _Goldfinger_ when Robbie turns towards him, frowning. "Told meself I wasn't going to say anything, but I can't keep quiet. You're not gonna fly until Easter Sunday? Near a month away? It's a daft idea."

"I don't expect you to understand—" James begins.

"No, I don't understand. There's misery enough in this world. What good does it do to give up something that makes you happy?"

"Lent is a time of spiritual introspection, and the three tools that Catholics traditionally employ are prayer, fasting, and sacrifice," James replies stiffly. _Christ! Could I sound more pompous?_

"Why don't you pick a sacrifice that'd do you some good? You could give up smoking instead."

James tried that two years ago, as Robbie knows quite well. He'd changed his mind after nine days, when it became clear that he was in danger of committing GBH or blasphemy—or possibly both—which would not be an aid to spiritual introspection. "I've already made my choice for this year."

"From what I can see, most people who do this pick something they like that isn't really good for them. Ciggies, or drink or sweets... I knew a woman back in Newcastle who gave up watching the telly. But flying isn't just something that gives you joy, it's part of you. How can you—"

"I don't care to discuss this any further with you," James snaps. "This is a personal matter."

"Don't be ridiculous, man." Lewis looks frustrated, which strikes James as ironic. _What does he have to complain of?_

"However risible you may find my spiritual choices, they are, in fact, mine."

"James, be reasonable. I'm not laughing at you. I just care about what's best for you." He sounds sincere. He probably is sincere. That doesn't mean he's _right_.

"And you know what's best for me, do you?"

"Yes—sometimes. You know you don't always have a clear perspective on yourself. Or a healthy one."

"What exactly do you mean?"

"Seems to me that this 'sacrifice' bollocks is just an excuse not to fly. I thought you'd got over being ashamed of what you are."

James stands up and grabs his binder from the armchair in the corner, then has to put it down again so he can remove the grey t-shirt he's wearing. It's an indoor-only shirt, with slits cut in the back to accommodate his wings.

"What, you're just going to run off instead of talking this out?"

James snaps his wings shut with enough force that the takeaway menu on the coffee table is blown onto the floor. He tugs the binder into place, and fastens the velcro-backed straps. "I have nothing else to say to you." He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his dress shirt. His fingers fumble with the buttons. It's not until he gets to the bottom that he discovers that he's one button askew. He curses silently and gives it up as a bad job.

"I notice you're not denying it."

He pulls on his suit jacket and shoves his tie into a pocket. "There's no point, as you're clearly not listening to me. Actually, I'm beginning to wonder if this is more about you than about me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I think you're starting to miss all those private performances." Three long strides takes him to the door. "Thank you for dinner, sir. I'll see you on Monday."

* * *

**Saturday, 26 March  
** Third Saturday in Lent  
10:52 AM

"It wasn't true. I knew it wasn't true when I said it. He's not like that. He never has been."

"Why did you say it?"

"Because I was angry, and I knew it would hurt him." Silence from the other side of the screen. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"Peter said worse things about his Friend, and he was forgiven."

"God may forgive me, but I don't know if Robbie will. I don't know if he should."

"I have two pieces of counsel for you. The first is for you to speak to your friend as soon as possible, and ask his forgiveness. The second must wait until the appropriate time..."

James listens carefully to his confessor's instructions. "Yes, Father."

"Now, for your penance say five decades of the Rosary, reflecting on the Sorrowful Mysteries." James bows his head and recites the Act of Contrition.

Father Kennett pronounces the absolution, and bids him depart in peace. As James rises from the kneeler, the priest says quietly, "If you wish to discuss any of these matters outside the confessional, but in private, you have only to ask."

"Thank you, Father," James says sincerely. He's not sure that he will ever accept the priest's kind offer, but he does appreciate it.

He finds a quiet pew near the front of the sanctuary to do his penance. His hand dips into a jacket pocket and pulls out a brown leather pouch with a zipper. It might be mistaken for a coin purse, if not for the cross embossed in gold on one side. From the pouch he removes his grandmother's rosary, the one that his mum gave him for his First Communion. The plain olive wood beads are smooth beneath his fingers. One of the larger 'Our Father' beads has a crack in it: a souvenir of having impacted a wall with great force the night after James left the seminary.

He touches the small silver crucifix to his lips. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."

* * *

**Sunday, 27 March  
** Third Sunday in Lent  
9:23 AM

James stares across the street at a building he knows almost as well as the one he lives in.. He'd tried to speak to Robbie promptly on Saturday afternoon, as Father Kennet had instructed, but each time he drove past, Robbie's car was absent. He could have phoned, but was too afraid that Robbie might hang up on him. He needs to see the man in person and look him in the eyes. He strides across the street, and before he can think about what he's doing, raises a shaking hand to the doorbell.

"Coming!" a familiar voice replies, and then the door is flung open and the man himself is standing there, gaping at him. "James!" His look of surprise turns into one of relief. " I didn't expect to see you before Monday. Come in, man, come in." He steps aside from the doorway and beckons for James to enter.

James seats himself on the armchair rather than on the sofa next to Robbie. He doesn't feel entitled to that closeness, not yet. "I, erm... need to apologise for the things I said Friday night. They were unkind and untrue, and I knew that when I said them."

"I figured that out, after you left. People say things they don't mean when they're angry." Robbie drops his gaze, then looks at James again. "I reckon I need to apologise, too."

James shakes his head vehemently. "You have nothing to apologise for. I overreacted because... because I was frightened."

"Frightened?" Robbie echoes.

James gnaws on his lower lip. For hours, he's been wondering how he can explain the memories and emotions that have been swirling through him. "I.." Abruptly he stands, grasps the hem of his sweatshirt, and in one swift movement, pulls it off. His fingers make short work of the straps sealing his binder, and it joins the sweatshirt on the floor. With a fluttering sound almost like a sigh, he extends his wings to their full extent. "For most of my life, these weren't mine. Not in any meaningful way." Other people told him when he could let his wings be seen, when and how he could use them, and what he should think about them. When he left Crevecoeur, it was the beginning of years of fear and hiding. "Then Evan Murchison shot me, and everything changed."

Robbie was the catalyst. Robbie, who was as stubborn as he was kind, who refused to treat him any differently after learning his secret. Robbie, his best mate, who badgered him into flying again.

On a sunny, mild Saturday in February James had been flying in one of his favourite places—an abandoned quarry—when he decided to try a tricky manoeuvre. He'd failed his first attempt, overcorrected, and then had to resort to some awkward flapping to pull himself out of a sideslip. He'd looked like a drunken seagull, as Robbie had informed him once he landed, and they'd both laughed. And somehow, doing something clumsy and stupid with his wings suddenly made him realise that they were his again, his to control as much as his hands or feet.

"Because they were mine, I could give up the use of them for Lent," he explains to Robbie. "I know you thought I was restricting myself, but really, it's been a kind of freedom."

Robbie frowns, but it's his thinking frown, the one he uses when he's trying to figure out a difficult case. "And when I told you that it was a daft idea, it was like me saying you couldn't be trusted to use your freedom wisely."

James feels his cheeks burn. "I know you meant well, but..." He takes a deep breath. "I was afraid that you would persuade me to change my mind." _You're the only one who could_, he adds silently. "So I lashed out."

"I was afraid, too," Robbie confesses. "You'd been so happy, just like you deserve to be, and when you told me you'd given up the flying, I thought that you were slipping back to the way you'd been before. And I overreacted. Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. I'm the one who has to apologise for the way I behaved."

Robbie is shaking his head. "Sod that. We don't need words. C'mere." He opens his arms, taking a step forward.

James closes the distance between them and lets Robbie pull him into a hug. When did someone last hug him? He can't recall. Robbie's broad hands are warm and steady against his back. James feels comforted...and absolved. _Robbie's right. We don't need words._

They stand like this, motionless and silent, for nearly a minute. Then Robbie pulls a face, and says with mock severity, "I hate to say this James, but your feathers are tickling me something fierce."

"Sorry, sorry," James replies, smiling, and disentangles himself from his friend.

"I was about to make myself some breakfast," Robbie announces, "and I'll bet that you haven't eaten so much as a crumb today. Come into the kitchen, and you can cook us an omelette."

* * *

**Saturday, 23 April  
** Holy Saturday  
9:04 PM

"I thought it'd be like Bonfire Night," Robbie says. "All noise and excitement."

James looks around at the crowd outside the church The flames of the Easter Fire leap and dance above the top of the steel barrel, illuminating the faces of the waiting worshippers. The little kids are excited: the ones too young to understand what's happening. The older ones, as well as the adults, are thrumming with anticipation. "Different sort of excitement," James says.

A low murmur spreads through the crowd as the Bishop approaches. The firelight on the gold brocade of his chasuble gives it the ruddy glow of sunrise, though sunrise won't come for another nine hours. He takes the Paschal candle, blesses it in Latin and in English, then lights it from the Easter Fire.

"Robbie, are you sure you won't come inside with me? You could sit in the back. It would be warmer."

"Nah. I'll be fine out here. Won't get cold with that there." Robbie jerks his chin in the direction of the fire. "And I might stroll over to the cafe down the street, as they're open late tonight. You run along, get yourself a good seat."

James nods and hurries inside. He doesn't care about a 'good seat', but he does want to be inside before the service begins. He makes his way into the darkened church and finds a place in the front third of the nave. The whispers and other soft sounds of the crowd drop to near silence as the procession enters, headed by a deacon carrying the three-foot tall Paschal candle. "Lumen Christi," he intones. _Light of Christ_.

"Deo gratias," the congregation replies. Thanks be to God.

The deacon stands still as other members of the procession take small white candles fitted with round paper drip-catchers, light them from the Paschal candles, and pass them to the worshippers in the pews.

The procession moves partway up the nave, then pauses as the Deacon repeats the versicle and the congregation responds. The lighting of candles is repeated. James passes several candles to his neighbours on the left, then receives his own the time the Paschal candle makes its way to the Sanctuary, and is set into its tall bronze holder, the church is warm and bright with the light of many candle-flames. _Lumen Christi_. The darkness of Lent is banished.

A cantor steps forward to chant the Exsultet. "Exult, let them exult, the hosts of heaven, let angel ministers of God exult..."

Motionless in his pew, James feels himself soaring.

* * *

**Sunday, 24 April  
** Easter Sunday  
5:09 AM

James takes another sip of coffee and squints at the satnav as the Vectra speeds southeast through the pre-dawn greyness. "I think we're getting close."

Beside him, in the passenger seat, Robbie grunts sleepily. "Just be sure you don't doze off and drive over a cliff. I don't fancy going for a swim today."

"I'm not that tired," James protests. "You've done most of the driving. I told you I'd be happy to stay in Oxfordshire and fly at the quarry. We didn't need to come all the way to Land's End."

"You haven't been flying for six weeks. You ought to go somewhere special."

James has only been to their destination once before. It's not actually Land's End, which is crawling with tourists most of the year, but a remote spot on the northern coast of the Penwith Peninsula, east of Zennor. It is a lovely spot, as he recalls, and the sea winds make for some challenging flying.

Within forty-five minutes, James is flying over the Atlantic in the pink glow of dawn, just thirty metres beyond the granite cliffs of Penwith. As he swoops and soars amongst the gulls and petrels, Father Kennett's voice echoes in his mind.

_"I have two pieces of counsel for you... The second must wait until the appropriate time. When Lent is over, and you are flying again, take a moment to thank God for His gracious gift."_

James doesn't bother with a formal prayer. Instead, he flies with intention. Every swoop and dive is a _Gloria_, every ascent a _Hallelujah_. and the joy that pulses through him, from his toes to his wingtips, is an _Exsultet_. He doesn't pay attention to the passing minutes. He's not wearing a watch; the rising sun is the only timepiece he needs. Eventually, he feels himself tiring. He climbs a rising thermal to 200 metres above sea level, the better to glide into a landing. As he approaches the cliff top, he sees a familiar figure in a dark blue windbreaker jacket.

Robbie raises an arm and waves at him. No one looking at him would guess that he had driven through most of the night from Oxford to Cornwall. He'd been insulted by the suggestion that he rest in the car while James flew. "I'm not a pensioner who needs a bloody nap to get through the day," he'd grumbled. "Can't do my job as your lookout if I'm catching forty winks in the car."

James shifts his wings into gliding position. As soon as he is back over land he'll angle down, then spill air to make a gentle landing right in front of Robbie. It works just as planned. His bent knees absorb the shock of the final metre of descent. As he straightens, he flicks his wings upwards, then folds them neatly.

Robbie grins at him. "Don't have to ask if you had a good time. I can see it on your face." He gestures at a large basket set on one corner of a black and white fleece throw. "Ready for breakfast?" He opens the picnic hamper and begins to pull out an amazing assortment of food. There's fruit and cheese, thick ham sandwiches, hard-cooked eggs, bottles of water and juice, and even a package of hot cross buns. "There's enough for lunch, too. I reckoned you'd need to fuel up if you went for another flight later on." He looks at James who is standing there, speechless. "Sit down and eat something, soft lad. Didn't pack all this for just meself, y'know."

James stares at his best mate, and joy floods through him again. _Father Kennett didn't say which gracious gift I should acknowledge_... He throws his arms around Robbie's shoulders, pulls the other man into a tight embrace and whispers, "Deo gratias."

- THE END -


End file.
